


Old Acquaintances

by tristesses



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, F/M, Femsub, Hair-pulling, Id Fic, Pet Names, Sexting, Spanking, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 12:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9123373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: She and Jefferson have ahistory, and it looks like it's come back to bite her. But maybe she's okay with that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Season of Kink](http://seasonofkink.dreamwidth.org/) holiday challenge with the prompts "age kink, dirty talk, doms & subs."

_The problem with law school,_ Angelica reflects as she snags another glass of champagne from a server’s tray, _is how it makes ordinary small talk so_ boring.

The crowd murmurs around her, over a hundred of the country’s most influential politicians and billionaires steadily getting drunker and drunker at the bar or from the generous amounts of free champagne. Her father reserved the Conservatory Garden for the occasion, and he’d forsaken any elaborate decorations for the trees and flowers in their fresh summer garb. The fading sun lit them up like fire earlier that evening, and now moonlight glints off the leaves and delicate closed blossoms, dripping like silver. String lanterns bob in the breeze, casting strange and beautiful shadows. It’s exquisite, one of the best parties her father has ever thrown. She can’t wait to leave.

Angelica knows this sort of thing is important—networking makes the world go ‘round, as an old professor used to say—and in fact, she usually loves parties like this; she’s got a taste for dazzling the room, and she’s good at it, too. But not tonight; she’s only here because has an obligation to her father. The fact that she’s fresh off a cross-country flight, exhausted from running from job interview to job interview, and three days away from her period isn’t allowed to matter. After all, it wouldn’t do for Senator Schuyler’s eldest daughter to be missing from one of the most elite (and ripest for gossip) galas of the year. 

Peggy gets off easy, being in California, but at least Eliza is here too, for once taking Angelica’s place as the centerpiece of the room. She glows in a pale blue dress with a cowl neckline, her long, dark hair shining like a waterfall down her back. Angelica, nestled in an alcove, watches her for a few minutes, smiling a little. Eliza’s working the crowd hard for donations to her non-profit, an organization for homeless children. _She’s always wanted to run an orphanage,_ Angelica thinks as Eliza beams at the House Speaker and shakes her hand. _Getting closer each day. Maybe she’ll be able to start one soon._

Now Eliza has turned her attention to another senator, this one with _very_ deep pockets. George Washington shakes her hand gravely. Angelica can see her darting quick glances over his shoulder to see if Alexander Hamilton is lurking nearby—she’s been mooning after him ever since Angelica introduced them, and to judge by the length of his emails to her, he feels the same. Angelica feels a twinge of regret when she thinks about him. Those sparks that flew when they first met in the offices of the Columbia Political Review…well. Eliza had met him the next day, and any thoughts Angelica had about fanning that particular flame went away when she looked at her sister’s face—she’d been helpless in the face of Alex’s charisma. Let Eliza have him; they’ll be happy together, more or less.

God, she envies them sometimes. She can barely acknowledge it—jealousy doesn’t suit her, and the feeling is so small and petty it makes her stomach twist—but she forces herself to. The alternative is lying to herself, and Angelica won’t tolerate that.

She drains her glass of champagne, the third of the night, and considers whether she should have more. _No_ , she decides; she’s built up a nice, full-body flush from the booze, and her tongue is loose enough to be witty but not enough to sink ships.

“Wait, that’s loose lips,” she mutters to herself, and laughs. Yeah, she should cut herself off.

“Something amusing?” a voice drawls from behind her. Angelica stiffens a little; she knows that voice. She knows that _scent,_ that expensive French cologne. Something inside her pulses, and her flush grows hotter. She has to take a second to compose herself before turning around to verify just who’s invaded her alcove.

“Mr. Jefferson,” she says coolly to the man behind her. “It’s been a long time.”

“Well, well, if it isn’t Angelica Schuyler.” As if he hadn’t recognized her. Jefferson is dressed in a muted aubergine suit and flashy brogues, a black tie his mocking concession to the dress code. Doing whatever he wants, as usual. He looks like he hasn’t aged a day since she last saw him: strong jawline, trimmed beard, a cloud of curls haloing his head, dark eyes intelligent and evaluating. Exquisitely handsome, still.

He steps forward and takes her hand, too quickly for Angelica to yank it away, and bows over it like he’s stepped out of a historical romance novel, turning it palm-up and brushing his lips over the sensitive skin of her wrist. Old-fashioned with a twist, but that’s Jefferson in a nutshell. Angelica shivers at the sensation. 

“It’s been so long since Paris,” he says. “What have you been up to since, _chérie_?”

“Law school,” Angelica says stiffly. “And you forget yourself, Mr. Jefferson. We aren’t in Paris anymore.”

“Of course, Miss Schuyler.” Jefferson regards her with his head cocked slightly, as if she’s a curious weather phenomenon he wants to study. Those feline eyes of his seem to glow. “I seem to remember us being quite familiar, though. Surely you won’t hold a few years of lapsed letters against me?”

“Of course not,” Angelica says sweetly. “Only your voting record since you were elected Senator.”

His lips tighten, an unattractive look on an otherwise beautiful face.

“Party unity is valuable,” he says— _tells_ her, really, she can hear him slipping into his lecture voice. If he gets his way, there won’t be a conversation here. Angelica may have been fine with that at age twenty, but she won’t put up with it now.

“More valuable than your own ideals?” Angelica overrides him, before he gets started on a lecture about the importance of the two-party system. “I know for a fact you’re pro-choice—”

“I know where you’re going with this and I’m not interested,” he interrupts, with a dismissive flick of his hand. Frustration flares in Angelica’s chest, then settles as she gets into the flow of the argument. At least he’s _interesting._

“—but you voted against giving Planned Parenthood additional funding, anyway,” she continues. “And don’t give me bullshit about states’ rights; opinion is split down the middle in Virginia and you had a chance to nudge it in the right direction, and you didn’t.”

“I did what I believed was right at the time,” he begins, and she cuts him off.

“You did what you had to do to toe the party line,” she snaps. “I thought you were better than that.”

Two years of suppressed rage in her voice. Two years of watching him consistently voting for Republican bills, Republican morals, ones she knows—she _knows!_ —he doesn’t share. She glares at him, arms folded across her chest. More emotions flicker across his expression than she can pin down, but he settles on condescending amusement.

“Ah, Angelica!” he laughs, and it’s only then that Angelica notices just how close they are. She could reach out and touch him without moving an inch. She could step forward and kiss him, if she wanted. His full lips are set in a smirk, and she wants to bite them raw. “So full of passion. I’ve missed you.”

And then _he_ takes the step forward; he slips an arm around her waist and bends down to her ear, his lips brushing against the delicate shell.

“I’ve got the same number,” he whispers. Angelica is paralyzed by his scent, by the way he’s holding her flush against him, by the heat radiating from his leanly muscled body. The urge to press her lips to his neck and sink her teeth in is unbearable. “Give me a call.”

He lets her go, nods at her as if that was a perfectly normal thing to do to someone you hadn’t seen in four years. “Nice party.”

“Fuck off,” Angelica sputters, but he’s already gone.

“Damn,” she mutters, her hands balling into fists. “Damn it, _fuck._ ”

She and Jefferson have a history. A History, if you will, befitting of the capital letter. She was twenty, studying abroad in Paris, and he was pushing thirty-five, attached to the American embassy, a friend of a friend of her father’s, a man with a Ph.D. in her field. Of course they met up. She got a little guidance with her coursework, was shown around Paris like a tourist. Of course meeting for coffee turned into meeting for drinks, and of course polite conversation turned into heated debates. She lived for those late-night talks, then, the conversation flitting from topic to topic like a bird of prey on the breeze. Initially, he always kept his cool, watching with lazy amusement as she lost hers, but as the year dragged on, the ratio equalized. She learned his weak points, what would make him raise his hackles in anger, just as well as he learned hers. 

Looks like she’s lost her touch.

(Once, he put his hand on her thigh. Angelica can barely remember what they were arguing about—not the Declaration, for once, just some semantic detail in his writing she’d discovered and refused to let go—and he grabbed her thigh to keep her from storming off, holding her down. His hand slipped, brushed against the crotch of her jeans. He jerked away like she’d burned him, but she grabbed his wrist and put his hand back where it had been. Looked him in the eye. Saw him swallow, saw him glance from her face to her breasts to the place where his hand was. Felt his fingers flex on her thigh like he wanted to leave marks there.

“Angelica,” he said in a low voice, more serious than she’d ever seen him, and then her phone had chirped at her and the growing tension was broken as surely as if she’d slapped him.

She touched herself to that memory, and the thought of what could’ve happened, for weeks.)

Angelica feels sober for the first time in hours, and she resents it. Resents him in general. The nerve, telling her to call him, as if she’s just been waiting for his approval.

“Asshole,” she says under her breath, and puts her hands over her face. Deep breaths. Inhale—take her irritation and her righteous anger and put them away—exhale. Inhale—pretend his touch didn’t set her aflame; drown that fire within her heart—exhale. Inhale, exhale, and smile _just right._ Angelica brushes her hair out of her face, stands up straight, keeps that smile pasted on her face, and slips out of her alcove.

She’s long overdue for some networking. Shaking hands, smiling hard, pretending like it doesn’t piss her off when older white men call her _sweetheart_ and look at her like graduating from Columbia law school _summa cum laude_ is a cute trick.

She and Jefferson cross paths every now and then. He smiles at her when they do, a private, sultry smile meant just for her that kindles a low heat inside her. _Simmer down, girl,_ she tells herself, and tries to remember his opinions on welfare to kill her attraction. But it’s difficult when he looks as good as he does. And then he brushes past her on his way to talk to her father, his hand low on her back as he moves her out of the way, and fuck, she wants him. He’s infuriating and she loathes him as much as she's fascinated by him, but _fuck._

Eliza sidles up to her as she’s talking to a real estate mogul whose main interest in her seems to be the size of her inheritance, and places a gentle hand on her arm.

“Excuse me,” she interjects politely. “Can I steal my sister?”

Without waiting for a reply, she steers Angelica away from the real estate guy and to the outskirts of the party.

“What’s up?” Angelica asks, confused.

“Nothing,” Eliza replies. “But you kind of look like you want to kill someone. I think it’s scaring people. What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on,” Angelica says, and does her best to look chipper. It involves widening her eyes, smoothing the muscles in her face, and letting a smile curve her lips. Eliza looks more alarmed than convinced.

“You know you can’t lie to me,” she says with an arched eyebrow. “You usually like this kind of thing. So what’s up?”

Angelica opens her mouth to deny, deny, deny, but Eliza just looks at her. She’s kind and she’s patient and she’s stubborn as hell, so in the end, Angelica spills. She would eventually anyway.

“It’s not a big deal. Just…everything,” she sighs, and gestures vaguely, encompassing the _everything_ in one hand motion. It reminds her of Jefferson, damn the man, and her lip curls. “I’m tired and PMSing, I keep getting interviews but no jobs, which of course has _nothing_ to do with being black and female, so they tell me, and I ran into—” She cuts herself off, briefly enough that Eliza might not notice.

“—someone I really hate,” she finishes hastily. Eliza’s eyes narrow; so much for not noticing. Angelica sighs internally and braces herself for the interrogation.

“You’re lucky this party’s nearly over,” Eliza says instead, which is an unexpected relief. “But don’t get me wrong, missy, you’ll be telling me all about him tomorrow.”

“What makes you think it’s a him?” Angelica asks, less a deflection than out of habit. She’s never liked admitting her crushes—not that this is a crush, even if Eliza thinks so.

“Angie, I know you,” Eliza says. “You’re usually so unflappable, but then you get like this, and it’s _always_ a him.”

Angelica bristles, but she can’t exactly deny it. That’s just a consequence of the kind of men she likes—brilliant, intense, ambitious. The only exception was when that brilliant, intense, ambitious person was a woman. (Also in France—in fact, Maria was probably the reason Angelica didn’t end up sleeping with Jefferson, and vice versa; they became too caught up in each other to fall for him.)

“Fine, I admit it,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “But I know what I’m doing, Eliza.”

“You always do,” Eliza says, completely earnest, and pats her on the arm before taking off. She wasn’t wrong when she said the party was over; the place is beginning to empty out, people stumbling out to their cars and limos to order their drivers to take them home. The moon hangs high in the sky, casting its benevolent silver light upon them all; Angelica turns her face to it, and has the inexplicable urge to howl (to scratch, to bite, to _hunt—_ she wants blood).

Instead, she takes out her phone. She still has the number, even after four years and three new smartphones. She taps on his name, opens a new text message.

_You wanted to talk? I’m ready._

Too conciliatory. She deletes it and tries again. He knows her well enough to guess at anything she might say, a fact that irks her, so she has to say something startling, something the Angelica he knew four years ago would never have said.

_So are we doing this?_

It has potential, but it’s not a very Angelica thing to write—it sounds like something she would have texted to a booty call in undergrad. She erases the second draft of the message and taps the screen with her nail. _Shock him,_ she thinks. _Throw_ him _off for once. Figure out what power he has over you, and take it from him._

The power he has over her—

Angelica types, _I’ve been dripping wet since you touched me tonight,_ and sends it with an aggressive tap. She waits, a little apprehensive and hating it, letting the people flow past her. Her phone buzzes almost immediately.

_Show me_

Angelica makes him wait. She leans against a tree and watches her phone. A minute passes, stretches into two. Her phone vibrates again with a string of messages.

_You know you want to_

_You’ve been thinking about it all night haven’t you_

_Getting fucked_

_I’ll pin you to the bed and make you scream_

_Eat you out until you can’t stand it_

_Fuck you until you beg me to stop_

_You naughty little girl_

Christ. Angelica stares at her phone, wide-eyed, blushing all over, a little overheated in her pink party dress. His words aren’t even that original, but—she closes her eyes and imagines him, in his car or still in the garden, hunched over his phone, tapping out pornography and sending it to _her._ And that line— _naughty little girl_ —why does that go straight to her clit like this, make her throb, make her squeeze her thighs together and half-close her eyes and remember his arm tight around her waist, imagining that Southern drawl purring in her ear, _Angelica, you bad little girl, what did I say about you talking back to me_?

Why does that make her so fucking wet?

Angelica, not shaking at all— _obviously_ —picks up the phone and types, _If you want it, come get it._

_Where are you?_

_Still in the park,_ she sends. Then, a minute later, _I’m at the northwest corner. Come find me._

She hears his phone chime behind her, which is all the warning she gets before he seizes her by the arm and flips her around to face him. He yanks her close, her breasts-belly-thighs all pressing against his tightly-muscled body, his hand knotted in her hair as he crushes their lips together. Angelica opens her mouth for him, lets him devour her, whimpers into his mouth when he clutches her by the waist and gropes her ass hard. God, they shouldn’t be doing this here, they’re basically in public, anyone could see. She should stop this right now—

Angelica kisses him harder. She slides her hands around his torso, under his suit jacket, drags her nails down his back with just a thin layer of cloth between her and his skin. When he pulls away slightly, whether to get her to stop or to take off his jacket or whatever, she grabs his tie and yanks him back to her, going on her tiptoes to kiss him, clutching him by the nape of his neck. He’s hard, she can feel his cock rubbing against her thigh, and when she leans forward to put a little pressure on it, he groans in between kisses.

Then, a sudden streak of sadism flashing through her, she bites his lower lip as hard as she can, and he yelps and jerks away.

“What the fuck, Angelica?” he snaps, touching his lip and glaring at the blood he finds there. “Did you seriously just do that?”

“In the name of Democrats everywhere,” she pants, and gives him a saucy little smirk. Her head is whirling, she barely knows what she’s saying—“Whatcha going to do, punish me?”

“My God,” he says under his breath, then louder, “I’ve got a car waiting.”

“Then what are we doing here?” she asks. She wants to grab him and pull him into the bushes and ride him until she comes so hard she sees stars, but instead she turns her back on him and stalks away. He catches up with her a few minutes later—probably had to do some adjusting to be presentable. They don’t touch out here, not out in the open like this; they’ve already crossed the line once, and were lucky they didn’t get caught. It wouldn’t do for Thomas Jefferson to be seen kissing and groping Senator Schuyler’s much-younger daughter in the park.

But he _does_ sidle up to her, one hand on the small of her back. They could be having all kinds of innocent conversations: reliving Paris, talking art, anything. Instead, Jefferson whispers, “Yeah, baby girl, I’m gonna punish you. Think I’ll spank you ’til you cry.”

“Oh my god,” Angelica says involuntarily, and she hears his breath catch in his throat.

They delayed long enough that the media has left, off to hunt more interesting prey than the stragglers leaving the party. It’s easy to slip out without anyone noticing but his security detail, who follow him silently to the parking lot. He drives a Jaguar (of course), custom-painted in a flashy purple ( _of course_ ), with glossy black rims and a black interior. He opens the door for her; more of that old-fashioned chivalry he likes so much. She’s more than a little surprised when he goes around the car to climb in the driver’s seat.

“I thought you’d have a driver,” she says, and he snorts.

“Do the people I represent all have personal drivers? I think not,” he says. “I do my best to live like my constituents.”

Angelica boggles at this manifestly ridiculous statement as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“Somehow I doubt that your constituents all drive 2017 Jags,” she points out. “Or wear $3000 suits.”

Or, or, or—there are a lot of things that set Jefferson apart from his constituents; money’s just one of them. He shoots her an irritated look, but doesn’t deign to respond. She focuses instead on his hands, one wrapped around the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift. Long, elegant fingers, slightly bony wrists, muscled forearms. God, he’s strong. She has a sudden, vivid flash of him pinning her against the wall with his forearm on her throat— _Beg for it_ , he whispers—and she nibbles on her lip, gives him a sideways look, and wonders what the hell she’s doing.

“Angelica,” he says, voice low. Her eyes snap to his face; he’s glancing at her intermittently, seemingly torn between watching her and keeping his eyes on the road. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

She’s thinking about getting spanked hard enough to leave bruises on her ass for days. She’s thinking about having his cock rammed down her throat until she gags and claws at his thighs. She’s thinking about how she’ll feel on Monday, going to an interview with a goddamn civil rights firm in the heart of DC and knowing that she fucked Thomas Jefferson two days before.

“I’m thinking about you,” she says honestly. “I’m thinking about you teasing me and fucking me and—and not letting me come until I beg.”

Her voice quavers, but he’s not exactly unaffected either; his hands spasm on the wheel and he licks his lips, as if he can taste her already. It occurs to her suddenly that he wants this just as much as she does, that she might not have been just a passing Parisian fancy of his like she assumed, that he might have spent the evening thirsting after her too.

“I think I can do that for you,” he says, and she doesn’t miss his phrasing. _Do that_ for _you._ Interesting. Not the usual type of dominant. Her mind whirs, chewing that over, and she says—she can’t believe she says this, in a lilting voice ( _baby girl_ , he said)—

“Can you, Daddy?”

It’s a good thing they’re at a red light, because Thomas twitches so hard the steering wheel jerks to the side.

“Jesus Christ, Angelica,” he says hoarsely. He lets go of the steering wheel with one hand—it’s shaking, and she loves that, she has so much _power_ over him—and palms himself through his pants, too eager to wait.

“You like that,” she says, a declaration rather than a question. “You want me to be your little girl.”

God, what a rush that gives her. Knowing that she said that out loud— _little girl, I want to be your little girl_ —she’s light-headed and soaking wet, her nipples taut and sensitive as the material of her dress slides against them.

“You want it too,” Thomas tells her. (When did he become Thomas again?)

“Yeah. I do.”

The light turns green, and he slams on the gas, taking a right turn sharply enough to fling Angelica to the side, before pulling into the valet reception of an elegant, modern hotel Angelica’s read about but never visited. Angelica makes a point of getting out of the Jag before he can come around to her side and open the door.

He frowns at her. “Now you’re just being petty.”

“Yeah,” Angelica drawls. “I am.”

She arches an eyebrow at him, and something shifts under the annoyance on his face, an animal hunger, well-hidden until now.

“Let’s get you to my suite,” he says, and tosses his key at the valet. He leans in closer and whispers, “I’ll show you just what your pettiness gets you.”

In the elevator, she tries to kiss him, but he gently pushes her away and pins her against the wall, drinking her in with his eyes. Angelica wriggles, but his hands are too firm on her shoulders—she can’t budge. He’s too strong. And that—she likes that, knowing that she couldn’t get away if she wanted to, and how fucked up is that?

“You look good, baby girl,” he purrs. “Pink looks good on you. And what a pretty mouth you have.”

His hand cups her face, thumb brushing her lips; she parts them, lets him slip it inside. Sucks on it, flicks the pad of his thumb with her tongue, and shivers a little when his eyes widen.

“I gave you a compliment, honey,” he says. The elevator silently rises; Angelica feels a little bit like she left her brain on the first floor. “What do you say?”

“Thank you, Daddy,” she whispers.

“Good girl,” he tells her. The elevator doors open just as quietly as it ascended, leading directly to one of the most ostentatiously luxurious suites Angelica’s ever seen, and that’s saying a lot. It’s opulence fit for a king: rococo design, lots of crimson silk and gold accents, elaborate chandeliers and wall decorations. The furniture and carpeting remind her vividly of palace museums in France—unsurprising, given his rampant Francophilia.

“I like it,” she says, wandering through the living room and plopping down on one of the love seats. She casually slings her legs over the arm of the chair, letting her skirt ride up, baring a long strip of thigh. Thomas leans against the door and watches her with folded arms, expression inscrutable. “It’s very Versailles.”

“I knew you’d appreciate it,” he says complacently. Then his eyes narrow. “But your dresses clashes with the decor, angel.”

Angelica obediently reaches up to unzip her dress (it’s not very dignified; she has to wiggle to reach the zipper), but he clicks his tongue sharply, as if scolding an ill-behaved dog. Angelica freezes, then curses herself for it.

“Uh-uh,” he says. “Come over here. Let Daddy do that for you.”

_Oh._

“Yes, sir,” she whispers, and slips off her heels before she goes to him, walking lightly in her bare feet. The carpet is deliciously soft; when he makes her kneel (and she hopes he will) she’ll be comfortable.

God, she wants to kneel for him.

“Turn around,” he says, mimicking the gesture with a lazy twirl of his finger. She does—and where did combative, aggressive Angelica Schuyler go? Part of her is disconcerted, but the rest of her is beyond aroused. He strokes her hair, careful to not disturb the curls, and tucks it over her shoulder. Hand on the nape of her neck; she shivers and leans into it as he eases the zipper down her back. It seems to purr as it comes undone, and he trails his fingers down her spine until she does too.

“No bra?” he murmurs in her ear.

“Don’t need one,” she gasps. He’s cupping her breasts with both hands, squeezing gently, rolling her nipples between his fingers until they throb and she goes liquid against him. Half-dressed, with her dress bunched up around her hips, no shoes, disheveled, moaning, and they haven’t even made it to the bedroom.

“Dirty girl,” he says to her, dropping his head to plant kisses along her neck. She can feel his smirk against her throat.

And then he bites her hard enough to bruise and pinches her nipples at the same time. A yelp escapes her mouth, half outraged and half turned on, and he shoves her forward before she can react. She trips over the carpet and stumbles, caught just before her fall by the back of one of those fine rococo chairs. She folds around it, bent in two, but before she can scramble upright, he’s there, grabbing her by the hair and forcing her head back down. He digs his fingers deep into her curls and twists, and the pain is only fuel to her fire; she moans loudly, uninhibited, and arches her back even as tears gather in the corners of her eyes.

“That,” he says coldly, “was your first punishment.”

“Oh,” she pants, “oh, I—can I have my second one, Daddy?” She glances up at him from beneath lowered lashes, coy and pouty. And he laughs. Angelica stiffens; he isn’t supposed to laugh.

“You think this is something you’re gonna like, princess?” he asks, and shakes her hard by the hair. Her teeth clack together; the pain in her scalp is like fire; she thinks she could grind against the chair and come in a matter of minutes, if he let her. “No. Naughty little girls like you deserve to be punished.”

“Yes, sir,” she whimpers, and feels him move behind her, the sound of his steps muted by the plush carpet. He pushes her dress and her underwear down, letting them pool at her ankles.

“Spread your legs, baby,” he orders, and she does, fuck, she does, baring herself completely to him. He trails a finger along the slit of her sex, so lightly she can barely feel it, and she whines and tries to push back into him, desperate for stimulation.

“So fucking wet,” he laughs. “Let’s see how you like this.”

Then he brings his hand down on her ass, and this is no sexy little spanking like the kind she’s had before; Thomas _means_ it, this is a punishment, this is going to hurt tomorrow. Angelica shrieks, and he does it again on the other cheek.

“How many do you think you deserve, angel?” he asks, but he’s not waiting for an answer. “I think ten should do it. Start counting from one.”

_But you’ve already done two!—_ Angelica bites her tongue before the whine can escape her mouth, and braces herself for the blow. When it comes—

Holy shit. _Fuck._ The first two slaps were warm-ups in comparison. Angelica cries out, the echo of the slap running through her body like a quake, and stammers, “One—th—thank you, Daddy!”

Thomas curses incoherently under his breath, grips her by the hip—she’s not sure if it’s to hold her still or to steady himself—and hits her again.

Angelica keeps count. She couldn’t forgive herself if she didn’t.

“T—ten!” she sobs, several hazy minutes later. The tears started leaking down her cheeks a few slaps ago (sixth spanking, she remembers). “Thank you, oh, thank you—“

“Angelica—“ He flips her around so she’s facing him, seizes her by the jaw, and kisses her, deep and dirty. “You were such a good girl for me.”

He slips a hand between her legs and finally, _finally_ touches her, sliding through her wetness, finding her clit and swirling around it in circles with an expert touch.

Angelica absolutely loses it.

She cries out into his mouth, scratches at his back, wraps a leg around his waist to give him easier access. God, she’s close, she can feel it building, a rolling rush of waves like a tsunami waiting to crash into the shore—

And then he stops, the bastard. He _stops_. Angelica nearly screams with frustration.

“C’mon, angel,” he growls. “We’re going to the bedroom. Gotta fuck that pretty pussy of yours now.”

She hates that word, it’s like nails on a chalkboard, but he can call her genitals whatever the fuck he wants so long as he lets her come soon. He scoops her up like she weighs nothing, and she instinctively wraps her arms around his neck to keep steady. At this angle, she can kind of grind against his stomach; the fabric offers just the barest stimulation, but it’s enough to make her moan and rock her hips forward in desperation.

“Slutty little thing,” he comments, and drops her on the bed. Angelica bounces once, then props herself up on her elbows and looks at him, legs spread wide. “Look at what you did to my shirt.”

The irritation in his voice is real. Good; maybe he’ll fuck her harder for it.

Now he’s taking off his tie, followed by his shirt, and Angelica stares at him like she could devour him with her eyes. He is absolutely _ripped_ , his body as carefully sculpted as a Greek statue. He strips off his pants next, and Angelica’s mouth waters at the sight of his cock, thick and dark with arousal.

“Like what you see?” he asks, cocky.

Angelica says, briefly slipping out of character, “You know I do. I won’t pander to your vanity.”

“I can’t wait to fuck you,” he snarls, and grabs her by the ankles and yanks her towards the edge of the bed, towards his waiting cock. He rubs the head of it against her clit, and Angelica moans and bucks her hips, seeking more. “You think I’m going to be nice about it? I’m not, little girl. Gonna tease you ’til you cry. You fucking deserve this.”

He doesn’t slam into her like she expected; instead, he lines up with her entrance and eases in, slowly filling her inch by inch, lighting her body up with every small movement he makes.

“Oh,” Angelica whispers. “Oh, oh, oh my god, I—“

He’s trembling; she can feel it through the bruising grip he has on her thighs, holding them spread wide so he can watch his cock fucking her, sliding in and out but never quite hitting that spot deep within her that Angelica _needs_ him to touch. She arches her back and tries to fuck herself on his cock, but his grip is too tight and he’s too strong; he doesn’t let her move. He just fucks her, moving her where he wants like a doll.

“Beg for it, angel,” he says hoarsely, and oh, he likes that name, doesn’t he? The thrusts pick up the pace, but still don’t hit Angelica where she wants. “You want to come all over my cock? Then beg for it, baby girl.”

She gives up on holding back; he’s won, she can admit it. So she fucking begs.

“Please!” she cries out. “Please, please, fuck me hard, Daddy, I need it, your little girl needs it, _fuck me_ —“

Thomas groans and hauls her closer, bends her in half like a pretzel, and rams into her— _there_ , oh God, that’s what she needs, right there don’t stop _don’t stop_ —

The tsunami crashes over her and she comes hard, dragging her nails down his back, clawing raised red scratch-marks into his skin. He’s buried his head in the crook of her neck, his hair in her mouth and her face but she doesn’t care; he’s whispering her name, “Angelica, Angelica,” like a prayer, and the pounding is getting her close again—

Thomas moans and goes rigid and bites her neck all at once; he quivers all over, pulsing inside her— _shit_ , no condom, the hell was Angelica thinking—too late to worry. He gasps out his orgasm and collapses on her.

“Fuck, Thomas,” she whines, pushing at his shoulder. “Why’d you stop, I was so close—“

“Oh, so it’s Thomas again?” he chuckles, and licks the place where he bit her. “What happened to _please fuck me hard, Daddy_?”

“Fuck you,” she spits, and he snorts.

“Who am I to not give my princess what she wants,” he says, and before she can react, he slips off the bed and onto his knees on the floor in front of her. “Scoot forward.”

And then he licks her, one long stripe from her entrance to her clit, eating—fuck, Angelica can’t believe this—eating his own come out of her. She can feel him swallowing, both his fluids and hers, and then he moves his mouth to her clit. _Fuck,_ he’s good with his tongue, finding the right pace and pressure almost immediately and lapping at her clit relentlessly.

Shivers roll down Angelica’s spine; she digs her hands in his hair and mutters, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, Thomas, yeah, right there, use your fingers—“

He pushes two fingers inside her dripping cunt, then three, and she moans and arches her back so hard she lifts her hips off the bed. He follows her, mouth never moving from its position. Too smart to piston his fingers in and out, he curls them instead, finding _that spot_ and rubbing it with the pads of his fingers, rubs it in circles while his tongue swirls around her clit insistently and—and—

Her eyes roll back and she convulses, her entire body lit up like the sky in a thunderstorm. Thomas stays with her as she rides it out, only stopping his licks when her twitches start to slow down.

“Jesus Christ,” Angelica gasps. Thomas hauls himself up to the bed and lays down, hands linked behind his head, a smirk on his face. Smug bastard.

“I know,” he says. “I’m that good.”

Catching her breath, Angelica says, “Yeah, you’re okay.”

“C’mon,” he snaps. “I’m much better than okay and you know it.”

Oh, so _this_ was a weak point. She never knew about this one in Paris.

“Sure,” she says lazily, and stretches like a cat. “I’ll upgrade that to pretty good.”

“You’ve never been fucked better.” A little defensive, now. _Men._ Why are they all so obsessed with their performance? Angelica makes a noncommittal noise just to annoy him, and sits up, swinging her legs out of bed. She thinks her legs have stopped quivering enough to stand. Probably.

“Where are you going?” Thomas sounds almost plaintive. Angelica blinks in surprise, casts him a look over her shoulder. He’s looking at her like—like he _cares_ about her. Like he’d rather she lay down next to him and—what, cuddle? The two of them?—than go.

“Home,” she says slowly. “I didn’t think you’d want me to stay.”

He goes still. His eyes dart across her face, reading it as if it’s a book in a language he only half-knows. _He thinks this is a game,_ Angelica realizes. _He thinks I’m testing him._

He’s right.

And he does exactly what she expected him to do: shut down, draw inward, act like this meant nothing to him, even though the naked want is written across his face.

“You know me so well,” he says dryly. His voice is laced with bitterness; Angelica wonders if he realizes it. She decides to throw him a bone.

“I’m interviewing for a law firm in DC next week,” she says casually as she dresses. Thomas lounges on the bed behind her, looking for all the world as if he couldn’t give a damn about where she’s interviewing. She suspects that’s a lie. “Civil rights attorneys. I think I have a good chance.”

She slips on her dress. “Zip me?”

His hands are warm on her waist as he draws the zipper up. She continues, “Maybe we can get drinks that evening.”

“Like old times,” he murmurs.

“Like old times,” she echoes. He keeps his hands on her hips after he’s zipped up the dress, and after a long moment, he presses a kiss to the small of her back.

 _How long has it been?_ Angelica wants to ask. Wants to scream. _How long have you been in love with me? Since Paris? Just now? How long?_

She doesn’t say a damn thing, of course. That’s not how the two of them work. She slides on her shoes, adjusts her hemline, and looks back at Thomas.

“Call me,” she says, and slips out of the room.

She stares at the walls of the elevator as it silently descends, trying to keep her mind blank. _Figure out what power he has over you, and take it from him._ That was her plan, and it worked. So now she's a point ahead.

Angelica steps out of the elevator, and back into the city. She shivers in the brisk night air, tilts her head back to see the city glow against the sky. The greatest city in the world. But she might be leaving it. She does have that interview in DC, after all.

And if she gets the position (she’ll get it, she’s sure of it), she’ll be living in the same city as Thomas. And then—

Well. His move. Angelica smiles into the night. She can’t wait to see what it’ll be.


End file.
